


Hit Me (With Your Best Shot)

by AnathemaAuthoress



Series: Kinktober/Goretober 2018 [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Beating, Goretober 2018, Human Bill Cipher, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Oneshot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Spirits, Threats, anal with a bat, dubcon?, easily unwound sweaters, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: Ford wakes up bound in his lab and at the mercy of an unexpected attacker.-----Written for Kink/Goretober mash-ups!





	Hit Me (With Your Best Shot)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I'll be catching up on all of these prompts this month (but I'll probably keep doing them anyway). The prompts for this fic were: Spirits + Hey Batter Batter + Restraint. BillFord was the first pair to come to mind. I hope you guys enjoy this.

His wrists burned from the friction of the ropes. The beveled edges were digging raw marks into the skin and Ford could tell by the tingle in his fingertips that they were turning purple.

His head still swum from being knocked out, but the room had stopped spinning and he contorted in his binds against the laboratory floor. He’d expected to wake up out of the shack, somewhere to be tormented for information no doubt. Yet, there he remained, merely bound. Still in his lab coat and other dressings, Ford wondered if his screwdriver was still on hand. If that were the case he might defend himself. Foolish assailant.

Before he could get ahold of anything however, there was a gentle patter that came at last to breach the ambient sounds of grunting in otherwise painful silence. The soft tap, tapping of expensive shoes on tile. A whistle billowed over the room and echoed imposingly off the walls.

“I’m impressed by your audacity, I must admit,” Ford growled. “But I assure you, anything you want to know, you won’t get this way.” It had to be information the attacker wanted, why else go to the trouble?

The captor chuckled softly, a high-pitched thing even smothered under breath and attempted concealing. It chilled Ford’s bones and he became truly uneasy for the first time since waking. 

“Who are you?” Ford licked his dry lips nervously. “Show yourself!”

“Demanding, aren’t we?” The man stalked around his victim so those brown, polished loafers filled Ford’s vision. Just above were pin-striped slacks, yellow and black–like a hornet. But Ford didn’t need to see to know. The voice was enough.

“No. No you can’t be here. We  _ killed _ you!” Ford slammed his eyes closed, squeezed them hard to block out what he already knew.

“Ha! I’m a being of infinite cosmic concept! You can’t just press delete,” the captor laughed. 

Ford felt his gut roiling, then the pain amplified as he was kicked hard enough in the side to be sent onto his back, sliding along the polished ground.

He opened his eyes on defense, he could always use his bound legs to kick back another blow, but the monster was done with that move. He’d gotten the attention he’d wanted. Ford had to see.

“Bill,” he hissed. “You look different.”

The monster smiled, just wide enough to show off pearly white teeth. He was human in a full suit, yellow jacket with black tie and brown belt. He had a full-sized top hat, one glittering eye exposed, and blond fringe–of all things–shielded the other. He was swinging a shining brown bat in one hand, winding it over and over one gloved hand.

“That haircut is a few centuries too young for you,” Ford jeered. The pain and terror in his chest locked up in the usual safety deposit box and left only cold contempt as change.

“You can thank Shooting Star for the look. Pulled it from her brain. She’s got some twisted stuff in there, Sixers, let me tell ya. I thought it might be an amusing form. Certainly makes wielding this easier.” Bill flipped the bat one last time and held it up before his shielded eye like he was brandishing a blade for a duel.

“What do you want?” Almost a pointless question, one Ford had been asking for what felt like a hundred years. One for which there was no clear answer. Power, position, domination. Freedom from boredom? Acknowledgement? A little of column A, a little of column Z, most likely. 

“I just wanted to thank you for my little vacation to the abyss. Wonderful sights and sounds the void of absence has. Have you ever heard yourself screaming on a loop as your metaphysical form is dissolved and reconstructed over and over again? Ever run your head into a basin of water and instead of pulling out, you slide in deeper, drowning on your own despair?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Ford replied, voice probably not shaking as badly as it sounded. 

“Well, it’s not boring.” Bill’s smile grew to something too large, unreal and stretched up to his eye. “I can’t give that taste to you just yet, Sixers, but I got’cha something almost as good!” He dove forward, whole body moving in one motion like taking flight. As he moved into his leap, his hands locked around the hilt of the bat and drew it up. Then everything came down together. 

Ford felt the harsh, blunt smash of the wood against his ribs. The sound of it landing was a muffled thud, but it echoed through him, loud with pain. His lungs tightened as it came down again. And again. 

His large hands twitched in their binds, blood all but stopped to the digits, he could feel his pulse in his arms but no further. “Nmph! Bill! Stop!”

“Stop?” For a moment he did, drew up the bat to his shoulder, pulled up from the crouch he’d landed in and bent at the waist so his face was just over Ford’s. “We’re just getting started, pal. But you know, we can change it up.” He stood up straight and moved to straddle Ford’s torso. He sank down to sit on the man’s stomach.

Ford tried to thrash, but Bill was heavy, immovable. Ford felt like he was being crushed. 

With one gloved hand, Bill took hold of a loose thread in Ford’s sweater and tugged. The thread extended as the top came unraveled right down the middle. The unwinding fabric revealed muscles and the skin stretched over it. Dark bruises were starting to blossom over the ribs. Bill’s expression melted into unreadable discernment. He dropped the thread and trailed his fingers over the darkening places. Ford’s skin flinched under the touch, a sharp hiss slid through his teeth. Bill pressed harder, into the ridges where muscle dipped over bone.

“Remember when we weren’t afraid of each other?” Bill’s voice was soft. 

“No. You were always afraid of me.”

Bill’s lips pulled into a scowl. “Not now.” The bat came down against Ford’s heart, wood collided with collarbone. 

Ford started to choke, lungs winded by the impact. He drew in a gasp that was cut off by a hard hit to the jaw. His head flew against the blow and blood decorated the floor as it splattered from his teeth and tongue, dripped down his lips.

Then the pulsing agony was trapped in his face when Bill gripped his jaw and yanked him back so their eyes locked again. “Do I seem scared to you, Sixers?”

Ford replied by spitting a fresh well of blood over Bill’s artificially tailored jacket.

“Hoho! He’s got gall, ladies and gentlemen! Be that way. But you know, you may have your family fooled about what went down between us, but never forget that I know the truth. You wanted them dead just as much as I–actually? More. I just wanted a domain. You wanted to wipe this filthy place clean.”

Ford swallowed the coppery tang that had built under his tongue and fought back the sting of weakness. “I was young. Angry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

That smile was back, that bending, face-breaking smile. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Sixers.”

He stood and kicked Ford, unceremoniously, back onto his stomach. That gave the man a chance to cough and sputter up the spit and blood slowly constricting his windpipe. 

Bill hummed low in his throat as he bent down to yank Ford’s pants and underwear down in one powerful yank. He let the fabric pool around the ropes at Ford’s ankles.

“What the hell!” Ford’s usually gruff voice came out as a full growl. He tried to use his elbows and knees to squirm away, but it was useless. 

“Bill steps up to bat. He’s zero-three, but this looks to be his season, folks,” Bill let his voice come out booming, filtered through nothing, but everywhere like a speaker. He drew the bat up against his shoulder and tightened his grip around the handle.

“No! Bill!” Ford thrashed, got nowhere. His round ass was exposed, lab coat his only protection and it had fallen to the side, left him open.

The collision knocked the old man forward, slammed his chin against the ground as the shockwave rushed through him, waved up his skin and made his back and globes jiggle. The red imprint of the bat was singed in place and didn’t have time to fade when the next one was branded in. 

Again. Again. It burned like fire all the way through. Vessels bursted, turned Ford’s whole ass red, made it feel like icy blood was rushing over the surface.

“It’s a homerun!” Bill cackled, voice like daggers diving into the wounds. The beast liked the way it looked. The color and the quaking, like ripples in open water. When the flesh was tender and Ford was gasping, sobbing for mercy, only then did Bill stop. He dropped to his knees and bit the tips of his right glove. He pulled the fabric away and it disappeared into nothing. He pressed his bare hand to a cheek and warmed at how hot it was against his palm. He stroked the skin and felt bliss at every shiver it caused in his rival.

“Bill, this won’t solve anything.”

So desperate, Ford was so very desperate. Aching, hurting.  _ Good _ .  _ The feeling is mutual, old friend,  _ Bill thought.

Ford looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Bill run his tongue over the bulged handle end of the bat. He left a slick trail in his wake, a glossy coat of saliva like glaze on the wood. The old man’s eyes bulged in a myriad of disturbing sensations. “Don’t!”

Bill just smirked. He pressed the cool, wet wood between the flaming orbs of Ford’s ass. It was almost a relief for how it chilled like a salve, but the dangerous implications brought no comfort. “Say, Sixers? How about a little reunion? What say you let me in your body? One last hurrah.”

“Go to hell,” Ford spat.

“Been there, done yada. Fine. I have ways.” With that Bill pushed the mass against Ford’s opening. His body was tight, tense. It wouldn’t be enough to stop it. Bill touched skin to skin again and sent a wave through Ford that made the human’s muscles ease against his will. Fully limp, useless. The bat slid right in with a hard enough push.

“Ahhh! Bill!” Ford’s voice was raw. His eyes bulged, swelled with tears. His hands clenched each other, frozen purple digits entwining for purchase.

The bulge moved along tense inner walls, forced them apart and rolled through them with a burning touch. It pressed in deep, much too deep for its inflexibility. The wide girth of the bat pulled the puckered hole open, stretched it tautly about the radius with mercilessly increasing width.

Then Bill was fucking him, dragging it in and out, hoping for splinters as he rammed it home. His first clenched around the end, drove the wedge in to singe a demanding path. Ford’s legs were twitching, unable to spread or move away. His breath was ragged, body arching. His hard prick dragging against the floor assured the devil at the base that his games were not entirely unwelcome, not in this case, not with this man. Ford always liked a little pain. A lot perhaps.

Bill bent over his victim. Pressed his weight down against the larger being. His hand worked the bat in with vicious speed, nonchalantly, like an afterthought. Blood decorated his weapon. He stroked the canvas of that familiar coat beneath his free hand and rolled his false face against the nape of Ford’s neck. He could smell the human, feel the prickle of his hair.

He could also feel the tension threading through. Rigor mortis of the living. Muscles pulled like the wires of a piano, a key to be played. He blew his hot breath over Ford’s ear. “Hey batter, batter. Batter, batter. Swing!”

Ford’s spine arched and he shook with pain and relief that was powerful, but really only temporary. His body betrayed him, hot and heavy, thick and wet.

He woke still shaking, hands numb beneath the weight of his own body. He sat up slowly. Bedroom. Upstairs. Stan’s room. Alone.

He sighed and pressed his face into his palms to wipe away the sweat and lingering flashes of yellow toying with his pupils. It was a nightmare. Not a spirit. Just a ghost, haunting him from beyond the grave.

At least, he truly hoped so.

**Author's Note:**

> I think all the titles for this mash-up challenge will be unrelated song titles. XD 
> 
> If you liked this let me know in the comments!


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